The Front Runner

the national Road Runners Club 15-kilometer cross-country championship. It was being held on the famous course in Van Cortlandt Park, known affectionately to eastern runners as the "Vannie." I'd planned the race as a little change for Billy—he'd been doing all that hard track running in Europe, the distance was a good one for him, and not many other top runners
    made the effort to get to an odd-distance race like that, so he could just relax and enjoy himself.
    Vince and Jacques didn't run that day, as neither of them was avid for cross-country, but they went to watch, as did Betsy Heden.
    Three hundred fifty-five runners gathered on the great lawn at the edge of the park, where the start was to be. Everybody was milling around doing stretching exercises and warming up. There were sweatsuits and headbands and shoes of every color. Runners' families and runners' children were underfoot. The officials were cheerfully disorganized.
    It was perfect weather, rainy and cool. All in all, it was one of those big, informal, long-distance races, and the five of us relaxed and were having a good time.
    Finally they all massed at the start, with Billy one of those seeded in the long front line. At the gun, a multicolored sea of men poured off across the grass. Everybody was running balls-out to be as far up front as possible when the field funneled into the trail that led into the woods.
    While the race was in progress, Vince, Jacques and I stood around chatting pleasantly with Aldo and a couple other officials and the meet director. As usual, we felt that odd, questioning atmosphere around us. We were waiting for the field to finish the first of the three loops they'd have to make, up through the hills.
    When the leaders appeared far off, pouring down out of the hills onto the lawn again, Billy was with them, running in his usual just-in-front spot. As he went past, I shouted his split time at him. He was running easily, spattered with mud, and from the look on his face, he was enjoying himself.
    What seemed like an unusual number of reporters Were present, plus an NBC-TV camera crew. Ordinarily the metropolitan media don't get very excited over these odd-distance open cross-country races up in the Van-nie, so I could only conclude that they were there because of Billy. They had all approached him before the race, but he wouldn't talk because he was psyching himself, so they were waiting till afterward.
    When the leaders streamed in a second time, Billy
    was still in front. He had opened his lead to about twenty yards. He came hurtling along the cinder path across the lawn, with the spectators cheering him pleasantly from both sides. He was more spattered with mud then ever, his legs black with it. His hair was sopping wet. A swift, soft gnashing of spikes, and he was past us. He made the rest of us seem so stationary and earthbound.
    Then the long long line of the field started to pass us—the runners were all strung out now. I watched Billy's figure disappearing off across the lawn, starting the third and last loop.
    "He looks like a racehorse," a guy behind me said.
    "Jeez," said another guy, "the horse would die of embarrassment."
    Vince and Jacques and I exchanged a glance.
    We waited a little longer. A fine drizzle was coming down now, and the spectators and officials were all huddled under umbrellas. The officials' timesheets were so damp they were having a hard time writing on them.
    Finally, off across the lawn, you could see a lone white figure springing down out of the woods. The words of the Song of Solomon came to my mind: "Behold, he comes, bounding over the hills—my beloved is like a young stag." Billy had really pulled away, increasing his lead to several hundred yards.
    As he came flashing down the cinder path toward the tape, the crowd along it cheered and applauded. Photographers jumped out and squatted for photos as he bore down on them.
    He breasted the tape with a little smile on his face. Everybody crowded around him to pat him on the back and shake his hand. He was covered with mud from head to foot, and still looked fresh. It was one of his easiest victories.
    Billy still left the reporters hanging. He did his usual careful warmdown, striding and jogging in his warm-ups, and then he slipped away to the locker room at the nearby athletic field to get under the shower and scrape off the mud.
    Everybody started drifting off to the awards cere-
    mony. Originally they'd planned to hold it right there on